Sex Pistols

I have this weird thing with laundromats. When I first moved out to LA, I lived in this wackadoo family’s pool house in Beverly Hills-sort of like the OC but not even close because there was no AC and it came with children banging on the window every morning asking for candy; also, Peter Gallagher was not my landlord. So, forget about a washer and dryer. I got my first taste of sitting at the laundromat for three hours at a time, reading a book and hoping nobody stole my clothes when I walked across the street to Starbucks. While I hated those trips, I was twenty years old, had zero responsibility other than an occasional Econ exam and was brand new to LA...life atop a worn-out dryer was pretty rad.

Now, anytime I walk by a laundromat, the smell of detergent and the heat coming through the doors takes me back to the days of $300 denim (I know better now), nights at Les Deux and wide-eyed confusion. The time right before you figure out what you’re supposed to do with your life is when you get a lot of the good stuff in. But the older I’ve gotten, I realize adulting isn’t so bad either; I’ve found that a good colorist and a trainer will take you much further than bottle service ever could, that it’s better to buy the $40 pair of sunglasses if you’re just going to throw them in your console...and good grief child, you don’t need all that stitching on your jeans. I’ve outgrown the laundromat, but sometimes you just need to stop in and say “hello” to the memories.